


Everybody Loves a Hero

by KHansen



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Background Relationships, Blood, Canon Typical Witcherphobia, Decapitation, Established Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Execution, Gaslighting, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt No Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion In A Dress, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Knives, M/M, Manipulation, Mild Gore, Neither Geralt nor Jaskier die, No beta we die like stregobor does, Non-Graphic Smut, Stregobor still is though, Unreliable Narrator, Unrequited Love, Valdo actually isn't a bad guy in this one, background geralt/jaskier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:41:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28168638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KHansen/pseuds/KHansen
Summary: Valdo Marx has loved Jaskier since they were boys, schoolmates at Oxenfurt Academy. He's recently had his affections refuted and his heart broken when he meets a sorcerer who says he can help Valdo get his happily ever after.
Relationships: Valdo Marx/Stregobor
Comments: 18
Kudos: 36
Collections: The Witcher Quick Fic #02





	Everybody Loves a Hero

**Author's Note:**

> Oops

The music is soft and lilting as it echoes off of high, vaulted ceilings. The tootle of a pipe, the rattle of a drum, the gentle hum of a lute; all coming together mixing and melding and harmonizing into the melody that tickles the stained glass windows and blows along the ground to rustle skirts, filling every crevice and crack of the large banquet hall. Over the music is the chatter of guests, voices overlapping and laughing as they obscure the beautiful notes in favor of their crude communications.

Ordinarily, he would be socializing. Would join in on the celebrations when not hired to perform. But Valdo isn’t feeling particularly merry tonight; and, is only in attendance of the annual Yule banquet hosted by the king and queen of Cidaris for appearance sake. If people approach him he’ll plant a grin on his lips and straighten his shoulders, a boisterous laugh at the ready to be unleashed as he wears his propriety as a shield.

Otherwise he’s slumped against the pillar he’s taken up residence by, green eyes downturned and gazing deep into the merlot held by a crystalline goblet. His reflection in the dark surface of the wine shows the sorrow of a man whose heart has been spurned. Valdo sighs, swirls the wine around the glass, and brings it to his already stained lips. 

Standing before him is an older gentleman, perhaps twenty years Valdo’s senior, who is watching him closely. In his surprise, the troubadour inhales a good portion of wine. It burns his nose as he coughs it back up into his goblet, ruining the rest of the merlot and dribbling some down his front in a macabre stain over his breast. The gentleman looks startled and reaches a hand out, placing it gently on Valdo’s arm.

“My good man, are you quite alright?” He asks, concern coloring his words, “I meant no alarm.”

Valdo coughs into his fist, certain his face is bright red and splotchy now from nearly drowning upon land, “No, no. I should have been watching my surroundings. I apologize, Master…?”

“Stregobor,” the man runs his hand down Valdo’s arm to take his hand in a firm shake, “Irion Stregobor.”

“The magician?”

Stregobor’s kind smile stiffens slightly, “Sorcerer, actually. Head of the Brotherhood of Sorcerers.”

“My apologies,” Valdo smiles politely, he’s certain his expression is strained, “I’ve never met a sorcerer before, and considered most forms of magic a hoax until recently.”

“Might I inquire as to what changed your mind?” Stregobor leans against the pillars beside Valdo, looking interested. Valdo sighs again, his already strained grimace dropping.

“I… a friend of mine– that is, I thought he was my friend– has been traveling with a witcher,” Valdo explains haltingly. It’s  _ embarrassing,  _ he’s a bard! The best in Cidaris, the troubadour to the king and queen, with enough renown to his name to retire tomorrow and live the rest of his life comfortably. 

“A witcher, you say?” Stregobor’s thick eyebrows raise, “Have you met this witcher?”

“I have. They passed through Cidaris not long ago. I had hoped to… put some water under the bridge, if you will, between my friend and I. I fear I wasn’t a very kind man to him for many years; but, I assure you, I had truly thought our barbs and insults were in jest!”

“And to find out they weren’t must have been terrible.”

“Indeed,” Valdo nods miserably, looking down at his wine again. It’s disgusting now, but he sips it regardless; he can’t be fucked with manners right now. “I tried to apologize but– I mean, he was so  _ upset _ and then the next thing I knew I was–”

“Being violently assaulted,” Stregobor frowns and Valdo looks up at him in surprise

“How did you know that?” 

“Sorcerers can read minds, dear boy,” the sorcerer explains, “Part of our training at Ban Ard. I’m sorry for the way you were mistreated.”

“I was informed, as well, that Jas– my  _ friend– _ had wished upon a Djinn for my death via apoplexy,” Valdo laughs bitterly, “So much for friendly rivalry, hm?”

“That sounds quite awful, Valdo– may I call you Valdo?”

Valdo waves dismissively as he bobs his head in a half-assed nod before pulling down the last dregs of his wine, only for the goblet to be promptly replaced by a passing server. He jumps slightly as Stregobor’s hand lands on his shoulder, a comforting touch in the wake of his recent history. Valdo’s head is spinning slightly, a bit more than it would after three glasses of merlot, but then again he hasn’t eaten anything since this morning and the alcohol sits warm and cozy in his stomach.

“I loved him,” Valdo confesses, his voice breaking as tears fill his eyes for the fifth time in as many days, “I thought we were just having fun. I’ve loved him since we were boys at school, how could anyone not? Jaskier shines like the sun, as bright and vibrant as any flower that lines the dusty roads he travels. He’s like a star hung in the velvet night, and no matter how you try to reach for him, he’s always just out of grasp; dancing joyfully across the Continent and you can’t help but admire him even as he leaves a flurry of lovers in his wake.

“Like a dandelion, he flew on the breeze, leaving behind flourishes of beauty. You look at him and think, ‘that’s a man who will never settle down. Never be satisfied by one singular person, never tied to someone in particular’. So you never even thought to entertain the idea of loving him fully and completely; I wouldn’t bereave a bird of its song so why would I try to end his adventures?

“And then you find out he’s tied himself to a witcher for the past two decades. And the last six years of that time has been spent atop the witcher’s cock,” Valdo says with sudden vitriol, “and you understand why, the witcher is absurdly handsome for a mutant: with his white hair and pretty scars, it’s no wonder Jaskier fell in love with him. But now, to learn of what could have been had I not been such a coward?” He sighs and shakes his head.

Stregobor frowns sympathetically, slipping his arm around Valdo’s shoulders in a comforting gesture. He’s warm, and quite soft in his robes, so Valdo allows himself to kant into Stregobor’s side. “That’s awful, Valdo, I’m so very sorry to hear of your loss,” Stregobor soothes, running his hand up and down the bard’s arm, “You said this witcher has white hair, correct?”

“Mhm,” Valdo nods gloomily, “And a scar, right over his eye.”

“The White Wolf.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The witcher,” Stregobor elaborates, “his name is Geralt of Rivia. He’s exceedingly dangerous, and I fear your friend may be in trouble.”

Valdo shakes his head, “You must be mistaken, Geralt of Rivia is a hero in all of Jaskier’s ballads. He’s renowned across the continent as a boon, not a barb.”

“That’s what you think,” Stregobor uses two fingers to tip Valdo’s head up, looking him in the eyes. The sorcerer’s steel gray gaze is intense and Valdo finds himself squirming. “Before Jaskier the Bard started traipsing after that monster, he was known as the Butcher of Blaviken.”

“Geralt of Rivia is the Butcher?” Valdo’s eyes widen, his heart stuttering in his chest, “N-no, that can’t be–”

“He hurt you, didn’t he?” Stregobor pushes on, “Used his magic against you when you came face-to-face with him. He’s a beast, an animal that needs to be put down.”

Valdo pulls away, shaking his head, “No, Jaskier’s always been a good judge of character. I trust him to–”

“You trust him in regards to this witcher? When witchers have the ability to compel their victims?”

“Th-they do?”

“Quite,” Stregobor nods, “It’s most likely that Jaskier is under the Butcher’s spell.”

Valdo is quiet, anxiety and alcohol clouding his thoughts. If what Stregobor says is true, then what Valdo ought to do is try to warn Jaskier of the witcher’s treachery; of the way the Butcher has raped him while Jaskier was under his control. It would be the right thing to do, wouldn’t it?

“We should warn him,” Stregobor says, as though reading Valdo’s thoughts. He probably was, Valdo realizes with a coldness that feels out of place with the alcohol and turns his stomach. “You spoke with him most recently, do you know where Jaskier and the Butcher might be headed?”

“I– they were headed for the Dragon Mountains, I believe,” Valdo stammers, biting his lip as he thinks about the awful things the witcher could be doing to his… well  _ his _ nothing, but maybe… “Jaskier has a banquet he’s attending on the way, in Kerack, and the witcher has business in Caingorn.”

“Then that’s where we’ll intersect them,” Stregobor nods definitively, “The banquet will be the perfect place, it’ll be easier to blend in.”

The troubadour squeaks, “W-we? Surely– surely you don’t need the assistance of a  _ bard _ in a quest such as this, Master Stregobor?”

“You don’t wish to rescue Jaskier?” Stregobor places a hand on Valdo’s jaw, tilting his head back again, “Be his knight in shining armor? Everyone loves a hero.”

Valdo sinks his teeth into his bottom lip as he looks to the side in a vain attempt to escape Stregobor’s gray eyes, his breath shaking in constricted lungs. Jaskier  _ has _ always been a hopeless romantic, and perhaps it would be the right thing to do; even if Jaskier seems happy, he doesn’t really know he is. He’s probably miserable inside and the witcher– the  _ Butcher– _ is forcing him to appear downright euphoric. If Valdo were to help Stregobor “deal” with the Butcher, release Jaskier from his magic, then Valdo would be redeemed. 

“Okay,” the troubadour agrees, squaring his shoulders, “I’ll help you. The banquet is overmorrow so–”

“So we have plenty of time for some fun first,” Stregobor caresses Valdo’s cheek and the bard can’t help leaning into the tender touch, shivering as the sorcerer’s fingers trail down the side of his neck and dip below the collar of his stained doublet. Some fun  _ indeed. _

If Valdo feels as though he’s betraying Jaskier– his trousers dropped and his cock buried deep within Stregobor’s velvet heat– he ignores it, distracting himself with the taller and older gentleman he has bent over a plush bench in the garden, the crickets chirping in the brush and a night owl hooting in a tree nearby. Once he’s spilled his paltry seed, Stregobor waves his hand and their clothes are righted back to a respectable standard, with only a hint of nefarious activities having taken place in a wrinkle here and an out of place hair there.

“Meet me tomorrow morning at dawn,” Stregobor brushes his hands down his robes, pale cheeks flushed beneath tidy stubble, “We’ll portal to Kerack. I believe I know the very banquet your bard and the Butcher will be in attendance of.” With that, Stregobor sweeps from the gardens, leaving Valdo standing alone and shivering in the cool air.

The following morning the two men portal to Kerack, Valdo losing his meager breakfast at the edge of Lettenhove. Stregobor clucks his tongue, waving his hand to close the portal behind them, “I tried to warn you that portals can negatively affect non-magic users.”

“Not helpful if I’ve already eaten, Master Stregobor,” Valdo groans as his stomach lurches and he dry heaves again. Stregobor scoffs and snaps his fingers, the nausea fading within seconds and the vomit vanishing from the ground. Valdo’s cheeks flush as he straightens up, straightening his silver doublet and smoothing back his hair. “Now what do we do?”

“We secure ourselves an invitation to this prestigious event,” Stregobor sniffs and starts forward down the road towards the manor stood on a hill just past the town, “After all, the birthday of the eldest son of Earl de Lettenhove is no ordinary party.”

“And you’re… you’re  _ sure _ this is the right way to go about this?” Valdo jogs to catch up to him, his lute bouncing on his hip, “it’s just that– not that I don’t think this is a brilliant plan, Master Stregobor– it seems a little conspicuous, don’t you think?”

“Conspicuous is what we want, Valdo,” Stregobor glances at the curious townspeople with disdain, making them shrink back even as they prepare for the festivities. Unlike other small towns in a lordship, Valdo notes that no one here seems horrendously dirty or unhealthy, everyone looking well-fed and happy. “We want word of the Butcher’s death to reach the far corners of the Continent. And for it to be at the hands of the great troubadour of Cidaris, Valdo Marx? You’ll go down in history as a legend!”

Valdo balks, “Wait,  _ me? _ I thought you were going to be the one to… you know!” He mimes dragging a dagger across his throat and then sticks his tongue out as his head drops to the side. The sorcerer rolls his eyes.

“Yes,  _ you, _ Valdo. Honestly, do I look like the kind of man to be able to get away with murder?”

“And I  _ am?” _

“You’re young, bard–”

“I’m forty-seven!”

“ _ –young, _ bard. Compared to my centuries? You’re practically a babe.”

“You’re over a hundred years old?” Valdo frowns and then, “wait,  _ centuries?” _

“Are you always this talkative?” Stregobor sneers at him and Valdo puffs up like a disgruntled bird.

“We fucked! And you’re telling me you’re multiple centuries old  _ after _ we fucked?”

“What does it matter? Bards will fuck anything that moves. You think the Butcher is the same age as Jaskier? And yet your bard– how did you put it?– ‘rides the witcher’s cock’.”

Valdo turns dark red with anger and embarrassment, “Don’t talk about him like that! He’s under the witcher’s spell, you said!”

“And he is,” Stregobor sighs, “I didn’t think my age would be a factor in your decision to copulate with me, I apologize for not sharing it with you and will endeavor to be more open with you in the future.”

Valdo’s scowl softens into a frown, feeling as though he’s being made fun of but being unsure as to how. “Thank you,” he settles on, crossing his arms petulantly. Is he acting childishly? No, no, it’s Stregobor who’s in the wrong. Right?

They fall silent as they climb the hill to the manor, Valdo falling back a few steps as the sorcerer approaches the bored-looking guard at the gate. “Good sir,” Stregobor starts with a charming smile, “I am the great sorcerer Irion, and I believe I’ve misplaced my invitation for the Earl’s banquet tomorrow night.”

The guard yawns and straightens up, covering his mouth with his hand politely, “I can go and ask the Earl for a new invitation, but if you’re asking me to just give you one–”

“Of course not, my good man!” Stregobor laughs, clapping the guard on the shoulder. The guard smiles slightly, looking primarily uncomfortable, “Go on, ask the Earl for his blessing. As you should, it would be in poor etiquette to allow a strange mage into such a prestigious event. I’m sure the Earl has been planning it for some time now, hm? He’s surely going to be able to answer such a small disruption of his time as finding the name of one of his guests.”

The guard pales slightly, glancing back at the manor through the gate. The bustle of servants on the grounds, entering and exiting the house like ants in a hill, is a testament to the level of activity the guard would be interrupting. “I… you said you were already invited?”

“On my honor,” Stregobor places a hand over his heart, “I would not lie to you. I wouldn’t be much of a ‘great’ sorcerer if I went around deceiving innocent guards now, would I?”

The guard hums, “I suppose not. And what about him?” He jerks his chin at Valdo and Stregobor glances over, narrowing his eyes warningly at Valdo to not say a word. 

“My plus one, sir.”

Valdo waves in what he hopes is a friendly and placating way as he gives the guard his own charming smile. The guard’s lips twist suspiciously but ultimately he nods and goes into the small guardhouse, digging around in a drawer and pulling out a blank invitation, “What are your names please, sirs?”

“Masters Irion Stregobor and Valdo Marx,” Stregobor smiles, flicking his fingers at the guard. The guard moves his hand to write but doesn’t put ink on his quill, scratching out the names on the invitation without actually writing them, before handing over the parchment.

“Have a pleasant day, Master Stregobor, Master Marx.”

“And you as well, sir,” Stregobor bows before descending back into the town with Valdo. He leads the bard to the outskirts before pulling a folded square of canvas from his robes and tossing it onto the ground. Valdo feels the static of magic skitter across his skin and watches in awe as the canvas unfolds into a tall tent that Stregobor guides him into, letting the flap fall shut behind them. The interior of the tent is larger than the exterior, and completely furnished with a plush bed, table and chairs, and even a roaring fire that warms the room comfortably.

Valdo watches as Stregobor moves around the room, pulling ingredients from cabinets and a wooden bowl from a cupboard, starting to grind flora in a mortar and pestle and dumping it into the bowl. “What, uh, what are you doing?”

“We’ll need a potion to poison the Butcher with,” the sorcerer explains calmly, pulling a stalk with lilac flowers and deep blue berries from a jar and shucking the berries into the mortar. “Something strong enough for a witcher takes time. Entertain yourself in the meantime.”

Valdo lights up, already reaching for his lute, “I’ll go play in the tavern! I don’t think I’ve ever been to Kerack before so it’s probable that the people have never heard my–”

“Are you a moron?” Stregobor snarls, slamming the pestle down on the table. Valdo jumps and clutches the strap of his case, “If you play in town and the word gets out that  _ Valdo Marx, _ known rival to Jaskier, is in the same town as the banquet Jaskier himself is attending then we’ll lose the element of surprise.”

“I… I’m sorry, I didn’t realize…”

“Of course you didn’t,” the sorcerer rubs his temples as he sighs, “I’m sorry, Valdo, you’re just very talented and would surely garner a lot of attention if you were to play in the tavern. You have to understand, we only get one shot at this.”

Once again, Valdo feels as though he’s been insulted even as Stregobor compliments him, and he sits down quietly at the table. For a while, he just watches the sorcerer work– he’s never seen a potion brewed before, let alone a  _ poison– _ but in the end he pulls out his lute to tune the already immaculate strings, ensuring the pitch is perfect and ignoring the sense of impending doom that settles on his shoulders.

The following evening, Stregobor and Valdo decked out in their very best, they march their way back up to the manor. Stregobor flashes their invitation to the guards and they’re allowed entrance to the party that’s already in full swing. No one announces their arrival as there’s no name on their invite, and Valdo suspects that the magician used some magic to make the guards turn a blind eye to their arrival. Valdo anxiously straightens the cuffs of his cream doublet, feeling the hilt of the curvy blade Stregobor gave him to have hidden in his sleeve in case things go sideways.

“There they are,” Stregobor murmurs, and he taps one of Valdo’s rings. Valdo feels that same staticy feeling he felt the day before and watches as his doublet changes color before his eyes. “I’ve glamoured you,” Stregobor explains, “You look like any other minor nobility now instead of your own dashing self. Pass by the witcher and dump this in his food, talk to him if you must to distract him.”

Valdo swallows thickly and nods, taking the vial of poison from Stregobor and weaving through the crowd. To make his approach more believable, he stops to hover at the edges of conversations or exchange a few words with other guests, even participating in a dance, on his way to the dais upon which the hosts sit. The Butcher is seated two chairs to the left of the Earl, and in the seat where the Earl’s son should sit is–

“Jaskier?” Valdo blurts out in surprise. Jaskier looks over from talking to his witcher, looking vaguely annoyed that his conversation was interrupted. He has dark kohl around his eyes and some sort of paint elongating his eyelashes, a different paint darkening his lips. He’s dressed in a gorgeous gown– white long sleeves and bared shoulders, a midnight blue corset cinched tight around his waist, the hint of a long white skirt just visible– and Valdo’s heart stutters.

Jaskier blinks as he recovers a polite smile, looking mildly confused now, “I apologize, it appears that you know me but I don’t know you.”

“I– ah,” Valdo stammers for a moment before clearing his throat. The Butcher’s eyes are narrowed suspiciously as his golden gaze holds Valdo in place. “I’m quite a fan, you see. I wasn’t aware that you would be at this event, will you be performing, sir?”

“Please, just call me Jaskier,” he waves his hand, his thin fingers and delicate wrists clothed in satin gloves the same color as his gown, “and I’m afraid not, my father already hired a band for the party. I’m just the guest of honor.”

“O-oh! It’s  _ your _ birthday, then?” Valdo’s eyes widen in surprise and he just barely resists the urge to glance around for Stregobor. This is Jaskier’s birthday party?  _ Jaskier _ is the viscount de lettenhove? 

And Valdo is going to commit murder at his birthday banquet.

His heart rate has spiked wildly and the witch– the  _ Butcher, _ he reprimands himself– looks even more suspect, his expression dropping into a thin scowl. 

Jaskier looks more amused than confused now as he sits back and picks up his goblet of wine, swirling the drink gently, “Indeed. The oh-so-dreaded secret is out. I couldn’t miss out on making my dear witcher suffer through another banquet, though. Especially not one in  _ my _ honor.”

“Your ego is inflated enough as is,” the Butcher grumbles but a smile breaks through his scowl as he turns his gaze onto Jaskier. Jaskier laughs and reaches over, pinching the Butcher’s cheek playfully between satin covered fingers.

“And it could stand to be inflated just a smidgeon more, don’t you think?”

Jaskier is looking at the Butcher like he’s hung the stars; as though the monster climbed a ladder to the moon and painted the night sky. Something ugly rears its head and Valdo’s stomach twists as his heart lurches. Jaskier is under this beast’s spell, it’s up to Valdo to save him.

As discreetly as he can, Valdo uncorks the vial of poison while casually leaning on the edge of the table. “I think a bard as great as Jaskier deserves to be celebrated and revered at every available opportunity,” he musters a charming smile directed at Jaskier as he gestures broadly, hiding the tipping of the vial in his motion. The witcher’s nostrils flare.

Valdo’s wrist is suddenly caught in a vice grip, bones creaking under the Butcher’s fingers.

“What’s this?” The Butcher growls, squeezing just enough for Valdo’s fingers to loosen and the vial of poison drops to the table, emptying onto the wood as it rolls. Jaskier frowns and leans down to smell it.

“Belladonna?” Jaskier glances up at the Butcher.

The witcher snarls and hauls Valdo across the table, the plates clattering noisily to the ground as the troubadour cries out in surprise. “Who sent you?” The Butcher demands. His face is close enough that Valdo can feel his hot breath. The banquet has fallen silent as all eyes are on them.

“Let him go, Valdo,” Stregobor’s bored drawl cuts through the silence. The Butcher’s head snaps up as Jaskier mouths in confusion ‘Valdo?’. “It’s clear this is a task you couldn’t handle and one I should have undertaken myself. You clearly don’t want to release your bard from his mind control.”

“Mind control?” Jaskier squawks indignantly, “Now hang on, what the fuck are you on about?”

“What are you doing here, Stregobor?” The Butcher’s growl drops another octave and Valdo would honestly be impressed if he weren’t scared out of his wits right now.

“I could ask the same of you, Butcher. Release the poor troubadour, he’s no threat to you.”

Valdo shudders as the witcher glares at him, his already rabbiting heart spiking another fraction of a second as he waits for the mutant’s grip to ease. A moment later the pressure on his wrist relaxes and he yanks his hand away. In the same motion, Valdo twists and rips the knife free of his sleeve, sinking it up to the hilt in the Butcher’s stomach.

“Geralt!” Jaskier cries out as the witcher stumbles back and grabs the handle, “No, don’t–” Jaskier’s warning is too late as the Butcher yanks the blade from his abdomen and tosses it aside, a gush of blood wetting the front of his black shirt so it gleams in the firelight. The Butcher takes a step towards Valdo.

Stregobor shoves his hand out, a wave of magic bursting from his palm. It slams into the Butcher, throwing him against the wall. Jaskier shouts and rushes to the witcher’s side, dropping to his knees. Valdo gets up and looks for the knife, spotting it not far from Jaskier’s foot. The bard is slapping and shaking the witcher, desperately trying to get him to wake up. 

Valdo starts for the knife, intending to finish the job. Jaskier hears him approach and whips around. He scoops up the blade as he jumps to his feet, skirts stained with echoes of crimson life. 

The troubadour immediately throws his hands up in surrender, eyeing the wicked curved blade of the knife, “J-Jaskier, don’t be hasty–”

“You just couldn’t leave me alone. I told you to stop _stalking_ me, and yet you couldn't follow even that simple direction,” Jaskier snarls, raising the knife threateningly. He stalks forward and backs Valdo up against the table, the edge digging painfully into the troubadour’s back as the bard towers over him. 

He looks like an angel of death.

“Jaskier, please, you have to understand! You were under his spell! I’m trying to  _ save _ you!”

“Save me from what?” Jaskier snarls, placing one gloved hand against Valdo’s throat to pin him down. The fabric is warm and wet.

“The-the Butcher! He’s got you under his control with his witcher mind pow–”

“Are you an idiot? Or just a gullible imbecile?” Jaskier hisses, bending down so his nose is nearly touching Valdo’s. “When have I ever done  _ anything _ I didn’t want to?”

“You wished for me to die! Surely you don’t actually want me dead?” Valdo is desperate as the tip of the knife presses under his chin and he gulps.

Jaskier laughs–  _ cackles _ really, completely unhinged– and pulls his red lips back to bare sharp teeth, “Oh, Valdo… did I fucking  _ sutter?” _

“But, I– we– Stregobor–!”

His eyes– so, so  _ blue _ in the darkness of the kohl, truly Jaskier looks  _ ethereal _ in this light– dart above Valdo’s head, searching for something.  _ Someone, _ Valdo realizes, only seconds before Jaskier has released him. The bard throws himself at the sorcerer, leaping onto the table to get the upper hand. 

As his feet leave the surface, Stregobor’s magic flares up. It manifests in a column of flames. The inferno blasts Jaskier away and he slides across the floor. Jaskier doesn’t get up, his hair and dress smoking. Valdo screams.

Stregobor ignores him, stalking forward and kicking the prone bard before stepping over him to crouch by the Butcher. Valdo only has eyes for Jaskier, motionless on the ground. He’s shaking, trembling with sudden grief and fury. Green eyes turn on the sorcerer.

Valdo wraps his fingers around the hilt of the knife, determinedly focusing his thoughts on the momentary triumph he felt after sinking the blade into the gut of the witcher. Stregobor doesn’t even look up.

Valdo learns that severing a head with a knife is messy work.

The magic holding back the guards dissipates and they rush forward, grabbing Valdo as he drops the knife. It clatters to the stone floor noisily as he twists around to watch a few healers run in. A portal even opens as a raven haired sorceress steps into the ballroom, her beautiful face twisting with disdain as she steps around the head oozing blood onto the flagstones.

Valdo doesn’t see Jaskier after that. He’s taken down to some holding cells, not even given a change of clothes. He asks about Jaskier each day he’s down there, shivering in the damp and dark and only thinking of the bard. He knows now that he was bamboozled, he was duped, he was  _ fooled. _ And not even well. 

He receives a sentence to hang.

The morning of his death, Valdo Marx is a somber man. He’s clapped in irons and can practically hear a dirge playing as he’s frog marched out of the dungeon. He blinks in the bright sunlight, blinded momentarily and stumbling as the guards shove him forward. A bag is yanked over his head and his vision is obscured by dark fabric. He’s suddenly ascending another set of steps, these ones wooden, and a noose is slipped around his throat.

The rope is scratchy and rough against the delicate skin of his neck, already tender from the bruising left by Jaskier’s slender– but deceptively strong– hand. The sack is pulled off of his head and Valdo squints against the brightness for a second time. Seems a bit redundant, but who is he to criticize the manner in which he meets Melitele?

Someone is speaking, reading his crimes aloud, but it’s all white noise as Valdo’s eyes sweep the crowd. They’re silent as the grave as they watch the executioner announce his sentencing. He’s desperate, he has to find him before the lever is pulled. He can’t have failed.

There! White hair, golden eyes, angry scowl. The Butcher. And beside him, half of his face and neck wrapped in bandages that disappear beneath the collar of his loose shirt, is Jaskier. He doesn’t look happy, in fact he looks quite saddened as he clutches the Butcher’s hand and leans heavily against the witcher. 

He saved them. Not Jaskier from the witcher, but the both of them from Stregobor. They might not love him now– probably never will, Valdo thinks as the lever is pulled and the platform drops out from under him– but that’s okay. Valdo will have all of eternity for them to come around.

After all, everybody loves a hero.


End file.
